


like this

by ayuminb



Series: Modern!AU Adventures [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (can't add any more tags without spoiling the whole thing), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12241125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: It starts like this:Sansa always gets what she wants; Jon never stands a chance.





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**Author's Note:**

> based on [this post](http://soapieturner.tumblr.com/post/164330344813/jonsa-things-that-gif-oh-hell-yea). sorta. it's more the gif.

It starts like this:

 

Somewhere along the line, Jon Snow gets encapsulated into a neat, little corner of her mind labelled ‘off limits’. Her brother’s best friend that everyone in the family has come to love dearly; soft-spoken, well-mannered, so bloody chivalrous you’d think he came right out one of those period dramas she so liked – even if he spends most of his time brooding. Such a good influence to Robb, her parents would say— _have_ said.

 

And they—Sansa and Jon—they’re not exactly friends but neither are they complete strangers. She’s his best friend’s little sister, so Sansa understands his need to keep his distance—so is Arya, she wants to point out sometimes, so is Arya and you don’t keep her at arm’s length. He’s her big brother’s best friends—and Robb’s and Bran’s and Rickon’s and Arya’s brother in all but blood; her parents’ quasi-son—so she might as well just accept the distance.

 

So, that distance – maybe it is the reason why she’d grown such an all-consuming crush on Jon Snow. She knows him, she _does_ , yet somehow it feels like he remains such a mystery; wants to know him better, wants to be closer. Sansa wants and wants and _wants_.

 

Alright, then maybe, _maybe_ it isn’t so much as ‘somewhere along the line’ as just the _one_ incident. When she had overheard Robb threatening his group of friends with severe bodily harm if they so much as looked in her and Arya’s direction. His friends had agreed and then had disregarded his threats weeks later and came onto her, and onto Arya some years later – Sansa had rejected them, Arya most definitely had as well, and Robb had made good on his promise.

 

All but one of them; all but Jon Snow.

 

Jon Snow who must’ve taken Robb’s words to heart, who’s never showed an interest in her— _that_ way. So Sansa had placed him neatly inside a little box and pushed it to the farthest corner of her mind, slapped the ‘off limits’ label on it and watched as an invisible wall raised up between them.

 

The wall must’ve crumbled along the years they hadn’t seen each other, after going off to college – him first, along with Robb, and she following three years later, someplace else. Must’ve smashed to tiny, little pieces because the moment their eyes land on each other, after four years of no significant contact; Jon’s giving her a look she would recognize anywhere, sending her heart onto a thunderous race within her chest, and the little box in her head bursts open—

 

—and then.

 

*****

 

It starts like this:

 

Jon’s definitely interested, if not willing to act on it; Sansa has definitely blown to pieces the ‘off limits’ box, and is _willing_ to act on it. Jon’s crashing in their den for the next couple of weeks; Sansa will most certainly use that to her advantage, as she can’t very well try to seduce him in front of her family.

 

Thus, she plans.

 

And tells herself she’s only sating her curiosity—scratching the itch because this is _Jon_ , she thinks, her heart hammering a tattoo of his name into her chest—nothing more, nothing less. It’s Jon and how could she _not_?

 

She plans, or _tries_ and fails, until one night as she walks down the stairs; one night, she endeavors not to stumble on her way to the kitchen for a midnight snack. One night, she hears Jon snoring in the den.

 

 _One_ night; he looks too bloody cute, more than should be allowed, and Sansa can’t quite help herself. Steps through the threshold, closes the door gently and walks towards the foldout couch, climbing onto it slowly, settling next to him. She tugs at one of his curls, smiles when the inky lock bounces back, then suppresses her giggles at seeing him sprawled on the cushions—an arm folded on top of his abdomen and the other under his head, the blankets completely tangled in his legs. Head tilted just so as his mouth hangs slightly open.

 

Sansa _pouts_ as she tugs at another curl, thinking it wholly unfair that even in such a state Jon manages to look so utterly handsome. So bloody hot. She’s trailing one of her fingers over his jaw, grazing the beard he’s growing there, when his hand seizes hers, bringing it to his lips to place a languorous kiss on it – he hums.

 

“Sansa,” he says, voice rough and deep and sending heat spiraling out through her body.

 

 _And_ then.

 

*****

 

It starts like this:

 

She half expects his eyes to snap open and then for him to leap as far away from her as humanly possible. Half expects him to mutter a thousand and more excuses as to his behavior as he avoids looking at her.

 

He does neither.

 

Jon blinks slowly, eyes fluttering before bestowing her with the softest look anyone has ever given her. He kisses the palm of her hand, a slow and open-mouthed kiss, and then tugs and Sansa propels forward, barely stopping herself from colliding with his chest.

 

She considers just lying on him, rest on his chest and—decides to hover over him instead, hands a little awkwardly placed at either side of his head as he still has one in his hold; her knees remain firmly next to his hips, both on the same side.

 

He turns his head to kiss the inside of her wrist, hums again, mumbles her name – it _rumbles_ , his voice, and stokes the fire simmering beneath her skin as he trails the fingers of his right hand up her arm and over her shoulder. All so very lightly, she can hardly call it a _touch_ ; Jon goes down her back and then, just as lightly, over her hip and down her thigh.

 

Sansa—she shakes off the desire to melt into him, reminds herself _why_ she’s currently here—smiles, lifts her thigh and tries to smother her delight Jon guides her to straddle him. _I’m here to seduce him_ , she thinks, _he won’t know what hit him_ , and smirks.

 

But then he gives her a disarming smile and – _oh_ , where’s the justice in that, she wonders, face burning—her whole body burning—her heart thundering against her ribs, how is it fair that he can be devastatingly tempting without even trying?

 

“You’re awake,” she says, suddenly breathless, an statement veiling her real inquiry; she needs to know.

 

“I am,” his reply is no louder than the barest of whispers – low and deep and oh, so very intoxicating.

 

She shifts onto her elbows, closer, presses her forehead to his. “I’m going to seduce you.”

 

“Oh,” his hand wanders over her body, a little less lightly, she can actually _feel_ his touch as opposed to the whisper of it and Sansa – she needs more than that. “Are you now?”

 

“I am.”

 

She traps his wandering hand against her thigh, shuddering as he gives it a squeeze, and then hesitates briefly. A beat, she moves his hand slowly to her ass, and waits. Jon’s gaze sharpens, as if finally coming out of a trance; Sansa hopes he doesn’t stop this, thinks she might combust if he does.

 

“Is it working?” her voice is soft.

 

He hums again, the damnable smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his other hand goes to her ass as well. Sansa tilts her chin, brushing a kiss over his lips as he slides his palms over the back of her thighs, down and _up_ , in a firm caress that has her trembling and—

 

“Yeah,” his voice cracks, “yeah, it is.”

 

—she kisses him, hard and desperate and driven by her all-consuming crush and this overwhelming desire that surges in her; tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls and swallows his groans and moans and _maybe_ , just maybe, some of those are her own.

 

Jon leans up and onto an elbow, trying to untangle his legs from the blankets and _fails_ ; his free arm is busy trying to bring their bodies even _closer_ and that leaves little room for him to kick the blankets off. Sansa breaks the kiss with a giggle and rolls off him onto her back – and maybe, _just_ maybe, she hadn’t really thought this through.

 

Because once he’s free of the blankets, Jon gets on top of her, pinning her to the cushions and engaging her into a kiss that robs her of the very air within her lungs, scatters her rapidly fragmenting thoughts into the night. When he settles himself in the cradle of her thighs, when one of his hands cups the back of her head to pull he into a heated kiss and the other toys the edge of her underwear, he stops.

 

He _stops_ ; Sansa blinks and gasps and her hands fly to his shoulders and maybe she pushes or maybe she _doesn’t_ , she can’t be sure but they’re breaking the kiss again and suddenly, _suddenly_ — _she really hadn’t thought this through_.

 

“Are you ok?” Jon asks, of course he asks, and the hand that’s cupping her head moves a little to the side until his thumb strokes the line of her jaw.

 

“Yeah,” she says, a whisper, as her eyes focus on her hands, wrinkling his shirt as they close in on his shoulders. She’s pretty sure a part of her is debating on whether she should just push him away or pull him _closer_. She really wants to pull him closer, wrap her legs around his waist and get back to what they were doing. “Yeah, I’m ok.”

 

Jon doesn’t look convinced. “Do you want me to stop?”

 

Does she? _No_ , no she doesn’t. But this ambivalence on how to proceed leaves her out of sorts; what is her purpose of seducing him if it isn’t going to lead them to sex in the end? God, but she can feel him hard between her legs, the flimsy layers of clothes separating them doing little to hide such a fact, and her body positively hums in _anticipation_.

 

“No.”

 

And Sansa knows she _means_ it. Perhaps, this is going to end up being a one-time thing, perhaps _not_. Whatever the case, Sansa is now determined to make the most of it. So, taking a deep breath, she wraps her legs around his waist, just as she’s wanted to do, presses her heels into the back of his thighs and urges him closer. Jon hisses and rocks his hips into hers, once, then again, and one more time – and she grins, and tugs at his shirt until they pull it off him.

 

“No,” she repeats, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to his lips, “I don’t want you to stop.”

 

And _then_ …

 

*****

 

It starts like this:

 

Sansa always gets what she wants; Jon never stands a chance.


End file.
